


king and lionheart

by casfallsinlove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lawyers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:57:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casfallsinlove/pseuds/casfallsinlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester puts away bad guys.</p>
<p>Well, <em>'Dean Winchester, Prosecuting Attorney'</em> is actually what it says on his business card, followed by a whole string of important-sounding qualifications, his cell, and the address of his Seattle firm. But Dean thinks it sounds better to say he puts the bad guys (and gals) away. Like he fights crime, only from the relative safety of a courtroom.</p>
<p>[In which Dean is a badass prosecutor and Cas is a ruthless defence lawyer and they hate each other but are also having angry sex on a fairly regular basis--which honestly doesn't mean anything at <em>all</em>.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There will be more soon, promise. And hopefully it will be significantly more substantial and plotty than this.
> 
> (Also creative license being used in that I am aware prosecutors work at DAs office and not in a firm-shhh just go with it.)
> 
> Originally on [tumblr](http://casfallsinlove.tumblr.com/tagged/lawyerau).

Dean Winchester puts away bad guys.

Well, _'Dean Winchester, Prosecuting Attorney'_ is actually what it says on his business card, followed by a whole string of important-sounding qualifications, his cell, and the address of his Seattle firm.  But Dean thinks it sounds better to say he puts the bad guys (and gals) away. Like he fights crime, only from the relative safety of a courtroom.

And he's damn good at it, too. One step away from getting his name on the door at Singer Harvelle (even though Sam keeps saying that Singer Harvelle Winchester would sound stupid; but what would he know? Dean thinks it sounds majestic).

Sam's just jealous, anyway. He's still an underpaid intern in the environmental law department down on ten. _Environmental law_. Like... yeah, okay, Sammy. You go save some whales, Dean's going to be up here on twenty-two sending murderers to jail.

Well, he'll be sitting in his fancy-ass office preparing to whip the defence’s backside, anyway.

Which leads Dean on quite nicely to the subject of Castiel Novak, criminal defence lawyer at Crowley and Alastair five blocks over and major pain in Dean's ass. He's a menace in the courtroom, too fucking good at his job and passionate with it. Dean doesn't know how he does it, how he can stand there and blatantly defend rapists and serial killers and other less desirable human beings, and look so damn composed, so unruffled while he does so.  He’s a bastard of the highest degree; a smug, insufferable asshole.

Oh yeah, it might be worth mentioning that Dean and Cas have been screwing each other's brains out for about six months now.

But that's a minor irrelevance, really. Because they really do hate each other, and they're starting to gather quite a reputation for their fierce courtroom battles. Dean's heard the whispers in the elevator, "They both had such strong closing statements that you could have cut the tension with a knife, I'm telling you!" "I heard Judge Henrickson had to give them a warning!", and they make him smirk.

Dean and Castiel’s frustration with each other carries over into the bedroom. Usually by the time they're back at one of their apartments or bar bathroom or hell, courthouse broom closet, they're tearing at each other's thousand-dollar suits, mouths and tongues and teeth launching a vicious attack, hands scrabbling with desperate fury against sweaty skin.

It's heady and intense and oh-so-good, and Dean doesn't reckon he could stop if he wanted to.  And he definitely doesn’t want to.

But then it’s a Thursday and it suddenly it all goes to shit.

The guy in the dock is Gordon Walker, a known thug and drug dealer with a penchant for armed robbery, who was finally nailed when he tried to sell cocaine to an undercover cop. The phrase ‘caught red-handed’ was invented for him, but Cas’s closing statement had gone on at length about Walker’s troubled youth, his falling in with the wrong crowd, the pressure he was under to conform to the gang’s demands. Dean struggled not to roll his eyes. As far as he was concerned, Walker was a brutish psychopath, and he made those feelings very clear in his own presentation. Life imprisonment, he recommended, because the list of charges was pretty damn extensive.

But Castiel, fucking Castiel Novak and his goddamn sob story, obviously got to Judge Fitzgerald (who was known for being lenient) and Walker is sentenced to ten years. Ten fucking years. Behind Dean in the gallery sits the families that Gordon had terrorized. The mother of a fifteen-year-old who overdosed on dodgy drugs sold by Walker is sobbing quietly. Dean is fuming.

When he looks across to see Cas in quiet conversation with Gordon, a smug smile on his stupid face, Dean gathers his briefcase and storms from the courtroom. There’s a bottle of whiskey in his desk drawer with his name on, and he plans to make the most of it.

He’s halfway across the lobby when there are quick footsteps behind him and a firm hand grabs his elbow. “Mr Winchester, may we talk?”

“Got nothing to say to you, Novak.”

He keeps walking but Cas just growls in frustration and follows him outside.  It’s raining, of course it’s fucking Seattle, and a black umbrella springs to life over Castiel’s head. Dean snorts. Heaven forbid Cas should get his hair wet. It probably takes him hours in the morning to look that perfectly bed-headed and sex-ruffled. Dean wouldn’t know; they don’t do sleepovers.

“Dean, slow down.”

But Dean doesn’t, keeps going across the parking lot. “What d’you want, Cas, a congratulations? That fucker deserved to rot in jail for the rest of his life.”

Cas sighs, world-weary. “Don’t you think I know that? I was just doing my job. It’s what I’m paid to do.”

“Yeah, well, your job is stupid.” Not his best comeback, but Dean’s too busy being mad and also shamefully turned on to think of anything better. (What, Cas is hot when he’s all riled up.)

“Please, Dean, this isn’t about Gordon Walker. I have something I—”

“For god’s sake, Cas, I’m tired and I don’t want to listen to this.” They reach the Impala, Dean’s pride and joy, and he fishes the keys out of his pocket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got—mmph!”

It’s always like this. They only ever initiate sexy times when they’re angry at each other. It’s not healthy, Dean knows it. Sometimes he thinks it’s just because Cas is horny and Dean is there, but then there are moments where they touch each other and Dean feels all-consumed with pleasure, high on it, buzzing, and Cas drags fingertips down his skin almost reverentially. It’s why Dean has no self-respect and keeps on doing this, time and time again, just to find those tiny little moments of complete and utter delight.

This is not one of those moments. This is livid kissing in the rain against the side of his car, where anyone can see them no less, and Dean’s silk tie is getting crumpled in Castiel’s fist.

“My place of yours?” Cas gasps when they part for air, his mouth still moving across Dean’s jaw. It doesn’t take him long to think of an answer.

“Mine.” Because he likes having Cas in his bed, sprawled out across the pillows like some fucking god, thoroughly debauched. He likes taking him apart bit by bit, until he’s writhing underneath Dean in a way that’s positively criminal, and the headboard is banging away against the wall so loudly that Dean knows it must be annoying Pamela next door, and there’s come splattering his Egyptian cotton sheets.

So he does just that for the next two hours, and they don’t speak other than to mutter words of encouragement and pleasure, and their kisses are all nipping teeth and duelling tongues, their hands possessive and dangerous.

Dean’s knees are still wobbly when he eventually makes it back to his office, and it only occurs to him in the elevator ride up that he never did ask Castiel what he wanted to talk to him about.

It doesn’t take him long to find out.

The doors ping open and Charlie Bradbury (aka, the best personal assistant in the world) is waiting on the other side of them, his favourite coffee in one hand and a bag from Gabe’s Pastries in the other. He eyes her suspiciously. “What did you break?”

“Nothing!” she protests, hurrying alongside him as they walk through the building. “But I thought these would help prepare you.”

Dean’s reading an email on his Blackberry so isn’t paying all that much attention when he asks, “Prepare me for what?”

“Mr Singer is in your office.”

“So?” Dean loves Bobby. Bobby’s great, taught him everything he knows. He’s been more of a father to Dean in recent years that John ever was. “Bobby’s always in my office. So long as my whiskey is still in tact, I don’t care.”

“He’s with—he’s with Castiel Novak, Dean.”

Dean stops walking. “ _What_?”

Charlie is the only person he’s told about his not-relationship with Cas, and she’s grimacing at him sympathetically. “He arrived ten minutes ago.”

But he’d just seen Cas not half an hour ago. Naked. In the shower. And now—this doesn’t make any sense.

“Why are they in my office?” he hisses, and replying to Benny’s email can wait.

Shaking her head frantically, Charlie stands in front of him and nervously straightens his tie, smoothes his jacket over his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do,” Dean counters, narrowing his eyes. “You’re Charlie Bradbury, you know everything.”

Charlie sighs and flicks her long red hair over her shoulder. “You’re not going to like it, and I’m not going to be the messenger on a suicide mission. Just _go_.”

Stomach clenching, Dean grabs the coffee just for something to do with his hands and strides into his office. Sure enough, Bobby and Cas are standing in front of his bookcase, admiring his record collection. Feeling suddenly like a school kid in trouble, he clears his throat.

“Ah, Dean,” Bobby says, all business as usual. “I ain’t gonna bother with introductions, seeing as you were in court with this guy just this morning.”

Yeah, that’s not the only thing Dean was in this morning that involved Cas.

“Oh yeah, we’re well acquainted.” He smiles falsely, and Cas is wearing a peculiar expression crossed between guilt and exasperation.

Bobby snorts. “Well, Castiel here is going to be joining us at Singer Harvelle, and ‘cause I can’t have my employees hatin’ each other’s guts, I’m assigning you, Dean, to show him ‘round and make him feel welcome.”

Dean is so busy glaring at Cas, trying to telepathically communicate the thought, ‘why didn’t you tell me about this when I was fucking you into the mattress you stupid stubborn asshole?’ that it takes a little while for Bobby’s words to really register. When they do, he’s pretty sure his balls jump back up into his body.

“Wait, _what_?”


	2. Chapter 2

"Yeah, okay, so... clearly we have to stop having sex."

Castiel looks up from the coffee machine, bewildered. "What? Why?"

They're standing in the break room at the kitchenette, which is mercifully empty besides themselves, and Dean sighs. "Cas, I can see you in your office from my desk. And I like what I see. What I see turns me on. And I can’t focus on shit when I’m turned on." At Cas’s smirk, he rolls his eyes and adds, "Stop looking so smug."

Confusion vanished, Cas has settled now for irritatingly amused. Dean’s beginning to regret starting this conversation here, but if they’re not at work then they’re having sex, and it’s even harder to talk when your pants are round your ankles.

It’s been a week now since Singer Harvelle hired Cas, and mercifully Dean’s spent most of that time in a courtroom. But it’s also been a week since they last fucked, and today has been an _incredibly_ slow morning, dragging on and on, and he’s literally had nothing better to do than stare at the insufferable defence attorney through the small gap the glass office fronts allow.

Which is why they need to call this whole thing off. If Dean knows he can’t have it, then he can stop wanting it and move on. Find someone else. Hell, he’s pretty sure half the firm would be willing, and if that makes him a ‘gross manwhore’ (Sam’s words) then so be it. It’s not a big deal. In fact, there’s Marty, down on twelve, who even looks a bit like Cas. If you squint. And are drunk. And also blind.

Cas hums thoughtfully as he stirs his coffee. “May I propose a counter-suggestion?”

“If you must.”

He leans back against the kitchen unit and Dean tries not to notice the way his white dress shirt pulls over his chest. Then Cas says, “I appreciate your point, but my solution is that we have _more_ sex, not less,” and Dean chokes a little.

“Are you kidding me?”

Still looking infuriatingly serene, Cas pushes away from the worktop and walks back to his office. Dean follows him, trying to look inconspicuous when a few of their colleagues glance their way. A couple even pause and say hello to Cas. Clearly none of them know how much of an asshole he is. Dean knows. Dean hates him.

Dean also wants to hear more about this counter-suggestion. 

“Did you not hear what I said?” he asks pointedly, once they’re safely ensconced in Castiel’s office (which, annoyingly, is perpendicular to his own corner office and as such affords him a glimpse of Cas through the glass front walls every time he’s sitting at his desk).

“Of course. You said that you were sexually frustrated,” Castiel states blandly. “And unless I’m not much mistaken, the cure to such an ailment is _having_ sex. Not the removal of it.”

And what d’ya know, the dude is actually making sense. “Huh.”

Cas’s smile now is triumphant, a man who knows he’s won. “Of course, if you’d like, we can always go back to my apartment tonight and… theorise. See if we can find a different answer to our quandary.”

Theorise? Well, they’ve never called it that before. Dean grins. “Is that what you want, Cas?”

Maybe it’s not such a bad idea. There’s nothing to say they can’t still be professional. Hell, Dean’s been on top of his game the last six months. The tension with Cas, both in and out of court, riles him up. It gets his blood pumping, energises him. And anyways, why have Marty-on-twelve when he can have the real thing?

“I’ll meet you by your car at six,” Cas says nonchalantly, but he’s smirking as he sits behind his desk and pulls his laptop towards him. “Oh, and Dean? Would you mind shifting that potted plant a little to the right on your way out? It’s blocking my view.”

Dean’s frown cracks into a smile when he moves the plant, sees his own desk, and realises that Cas has been perving on him, too, the fucker.

Charlie is waiting for him in his office when he walks in, sitting on one of his plush leather couches with her boots on the coffee table as she flips through a magazine. “So?” she asks when he walks in. “Did you call it off?”

He swats her feet back to the floor and nods tightly. “Yeah, yeah. All sorted. Very amicable, we both handled it like men. No biggie.”

But Charlie looks at him with narrowed eyes, then sighs her _Dean Winchester, you’re an idiot_ sigh. “You’re seeing him tonight, aren’t you?”

“Yep, parking garage at six.”

\--

The day doesn’t stop dragging; in fact, Dean’s pretty sure time actually slows down. He meets Sam for lunch at their favourite diner, and listens for an hour as he goes on and on about Jess, some biologist he met while investigating a case of lake pollution (real interesting stuff, environmental law) and how she asked him for drinks on Saturday and “what should I wear, Dean? I don’t know where she plans on taking us and I don’t want to be too informal, or the other way round”, and doesn’t feel guilty at all about teasing his brother for being a huge girl.

There’s actually a little part of him that’s jealous of Sam, and he dwells on it for the rest of the afternoon. Only a little part, for obvious reasons like Sam is a nerd and Dean is awesome, but it niggles at him. Because his brother has met this Jess chick and he’s positively glowing. Of course, what Dean and Castiel have is very different, but still. Sometimes Dean would like to actually be able to answer the question, “But _why_ won’t you let me set you up with her, Dean?”

It’s stupid, he knows, because he and Cas have never said they’re exclusive. How can they be when they’re hardly even a thing to begin with? But it’s _easy_ with Cas. It’s simple. There’s no awkward getting to know each other stage because they’re already past it. Well, they know each other’s bodies, anyway. And Dean knows that Cas is a neat-freak, and that he’s got a map of the world covered in stickers marking the spots he wants to visit in the back of his closet (he wasn’t snooping, it was an accident, okay?), and that he is allergic to cats but has always wanted a dog, and that he doesn’t have any family left, and that he’s a freak who talks to the pigeons on the sidewalk and has never learnt to drive so rides a damn pushbike everywhere.

Dean has learned these things about Cas, and Cas probably learned a few things about Dean, but that doesn’t mean that they _know_ each other. And Dean certainly isn’t going to introduce his little brother to a fuck-buddy.

Eventually, he’s pointedly ending a phone call with a client, shooing Charlie home (girl works too damn hard), packing his briefcase, and stepping into the elevator. When he walks through the basement parking garage, footsteps echoing off the concrete, Castiel is already leaning against the Impala’s hood.

Tsking him, Dean says, “Oi. Get your ass off my car before you scratch her.” Cas rolls his eyes but does as he’s told. He instead reaches for his bicycle, all folded up (yes, folded, into some weird metal square with a wheel that comes off and everything) and passes it to Dean to put in the trunk, like they’ve done a hundred times before. And Dean points out, “Y’know, it’s a miracle anyone ever takes you seriously when they see you arrive on this fucked up excuse for a bike,” like he’s done a hundred times before.

“Cycling is much better for your health—and the environment—than driving a gas-guzzler like this,” Cas rebukes as he sits in the shotgun seat, the car creaking underneath him.

“Heathen!” Scowling, Dean pats the dashboard lovingly and mutters, “Ignore him, Baby. He knows nothing.”  

Cas snorts rudely.

They go back to his place. Dean doesn’t like Castiel’s apartment much. Yeah, it’s large with more rooms than he needs and top-of-the-range appliances. But it’s cold. As immaculate as a show home but without the warm smell of cookies. There are no personal touches anywhere, no photos or framed certificates. Nothing, other than a child’s map in the back of a closet and a hideous piece of art in the bathroom that Dean suspects came with the place.

But the bed. Oh, he likes the bed a lot. The sheets are far nicer than his own; these are proper Egyptian cotton. The mattress is memory foam, he thinks, and the pillows are definitely proper down, goose or duck or some shit. They’re heavy and they crinkle slightly, but oh god it’s like resting on clouds.

What he also likes about the bad is the other man in it, currently licking and nipping his way along Dean’s clavicle. “Christ, Cas…” he groans brokenly, fingers clenching in that mess of dark hair.

Cas is a firecracker in bed. At first Dean thought it was the heady adrenaline of their first encounter, of that _newness_ , but now he knows otherwise. The guy’s stamina is off the charts, and _man_ does he have moves. And Dean’s always prided himself on being a good lay, so between the two of them the sex is fan-fucking-tastic.

“I meant it,” Dean gasps, pulling lightly to bring Cas’s mouth level with his own, “when I said we should stop doing this.”

“I know,” Cas murmurs, the vibrations tickling Dean’s jaw. One of his hands curls around Dean’s rock hard dick, fisting it loosely—there, but not there _enough_ and Dean’s tempted to cry out except he doesn’t want to give Cas the satisfaction.

“And I still don’t like you,” he grits out, because this is really only confirming that.

“I know,” Cas chuckles, plunging his tongue ferociously into Dean’s mouth.

They don’t talk after that. Dean always loses his head during sex, especially sex with Cas, and for a while it’s all he can do to cling onto his sanity while Cas rocks their hips together, finding that perfect rhythm, that smooth-rough friction of salty skin.

Cas comes first, into the space between their burning bodies, kissing Dean fiercely to muffle his cry. It’s enough to tip Dean over the edge, too, and he arches up with a soft whimper that he won’t admit to later.

Ten minutes. That’s how long they always allow themselves for a recovery time, and Dean tries really hard not to slip into a sated doze. It would be so easy, in this bed with Cas still mostly draped over him, sticky and warm and puffing quiet breaths against Dean’s chest.

“Hey,” Dean asks suddenly, “Why’d you leave Crowley and Alastair?”

He feels Cas tense. “They wanted me to do things that were… Let’s just say, I began to doubt their moral integrity and I certainly refused to be their hammer.”

Intrigued, because this is one of Singer Harvelle’s major rival firms they’re talking about, Dean asks, “Things that were what?”

But Cas rolls away from him, back to his side of the bed, and he can almost see the walls go up behind his pupil-blown eyes. “I am not at liberty to say, as you well know.”

And yeah, okay, maybe he’s contractually obliged to keep his mouth shut, but that doesn’t stop him being an asshole. Rolling his eyes, Dean eases himself into a sitting position and swings his legs to the floor. “I guess that’s my cue to leave.”

He slips on his slacks and buttons his shirt wrongly, because his fingers are still trembling slightly, before following the rest of the clothes trail to find his socks, jacket and shoes. When he’s about to leave, wordlessly as always, there’s a quiet “Dean,” from behind him.

In the doorway to the bedroom, Cas looks troubled. He pauses for a moment, clearly deliberating about something, then strides across the room in nothing but a pair of boxers and kisses Dean soundly on the lips, his palms warm against Dean’s cheeks.

Which is pretty weird, to be honest. They don’t do goodbyes, let alone goodbye kisses. In fact, this is the first time Castiel has ever kissed him without trying to initiate sex.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says gruffly, and Dean nods dumbly. Cas reaches behind him and opens the front door, running a thumb across Dean’s cheekbone before withdrawing his hand.

And, like… Dean’s not really sure what to make of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> where is this going, you ask. 
> 
> god only knows, i answer.
> 
> (actually i do have a plot in mind and it will probably come into play a bit more in the next couple of chapters) :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay in this fic! I swear it's not been abandoned and updates will happen, just not very regularly--at least until May, which is when I finish university and will be free to write whenever I want. 
> 
> So yeah, sorry. And thank you for all your comments; they are what has kicked my ass into gear to get this chapter out to you. :)

The thing is, Dean can't stop thinking about it.

Can't stop thinking about why Castiel left Crowley & Alastair, what he meant by not wanting to be their "hammer". Because as far as Dean was aware, Cas doesn't have any morals. He doesn't give two shits about most people, Dean included, unless he can get something out of it. Which means whatever it was his old firm wanted him to do, it's gotta be majorly shady. Like, potentially license-losing levels of shady. 

So Dean mentions it to Sam. 

They're having lunch at some vegetarian hippie place because it was Sam's turn to choose and he has no idea what constitutes as good food, and Dean says casually, "Hey, you still got that friend over at Crowley and Alastair? What was her name... Wilson?"

Sam drizzles something onto his salad and doesn't look up. "You mean Ava Wilson? Yeah, why?"

"She like working there?"

Frowning now, Sam says, "Yes, as far as I'm aware. Why, you trying to recruit her to Singer Harvelle?"

"No no, nothing like that," Dean brushes off. "I'm just curious. Castiel used to work for them but when I asked why he quit, he was all... evasive." Amusement sweeps over Sam's features and he gives him that  _look_ , like he knows something Dean doesn't. Dean hates that look. "Dude, what?"

"Oh, nothing," says Sam, too casually. What a jerk. "I just didn't think you and Castiel Novak did much  _talking_."

"What?" Dean actually feels all the blood drain away from his face. Sam doesn't know. He _can't_ know. Only Charlie knows, and she's like Dean's best friend or something probably so she wouldn't tell Sam. Unless Cas has--

"Come on, Dean, everyone knows about your reputation with Novak, how you're always fighting and stuff."

The relief is so palpable Dean thinks he might collapse under the weight of it. Of course Sam doesn't know. Jeez. Bolstering himself, he smirks, "Yeah, well, the guy's a grade-A douche. But he did used to work for our major rivals, and I would do  _anything_ to get one up on Fergus fucking Crowley."

"Anything, huh?" Sam laughs, spearing his fork through a cherry tomato. "Well then here's an idea: try being nice to the guy for once and maybe he'll trust you enough to talk about it."

Dean's brain short-circuits at the very notion of him and Cas becoming BFFs because there's about as much chance of that as him flying to the moon. God, his brother gives terrible advice. Dean knew he should have had this conversation with Charlie.

"Yeah, we'll see," he says noncommittally, and finally contemplates his boring-as-hell potato leek soup, flicking his tie over his shoulder to avoid any food spillage incidents. "Ugh," he declares, and sticks a piece of buttered French bread into his bowl. Across the table, Sam rolls his eyes. 

\--

When he gets back to the office there's a file on his desk with a pink post-it note attached from Ellen that reads "call me". Dean sits behind his desk and grins as he picks up the phone and dials the extension for his boss. 

"Dean," Ellen greets when her PA puts the call through. 

"Y'know, Ellen, I always thought you were the sort to play hard to get," he jokes, and grins wider when he gets the expected unamused  _tsk_ in reply. 

"Boy, you're lucky I don't fire your ass for sexual harassment," she volleys right back, to which Dean chances a, "Yeah, you wish."

Ellen, ever the professional, chooses to ignore him. "I take it you got the file?"

Dean flips open the folder. "Yeah, what is it?"

"A pro bono, if you're up for it. Client's name is Lisa Braeden. Thirty years old, single mom. There's... I think you should meet with her, hear her out. I know you've already fulfilled your pro bono quota, but I wanna give this woman the best I got, and Lord help me, that so happens to be you."

"Aw, Ellen, you sweet-talker," Dean quips, but he's already distracted with the file in front of him. The words  **attacked** and **serious bodily harm** catch his eye. He doesn't have to read any more. "Yeah, I'll take it. And I'll be happy to do it pro bono, don't worry."

"Thanks, Dean," Ellen says. "Keep me updated on the case. You're one of the good ones, you know that?"

Dean scoffs. "Yeah, yeah," he says and hangs up. "Charlie!"

Charlie breezes in, all smiles and red hair. "You bellowed?"

"Yeah, need you to set up a meeting with this woman." He hands her a memo with Ms. Braeden's contact details. "You know my schedule better than I do, but make it ASAP, okay?"

"Okay," Charlie confirms. "Anything else?"

"Nope, that's everything."

"Good," Charlie says, and collapses into the chair opposite him. She leans forward on the desk, chin in her hands. "So, tell me how things are going with you and Novak."

Wow, he should have seen that coming. It's been nearly a week since her last interrogation, which for Charlie is an incredible show of restraint. Dean could reward this with information, or he could tease her by not telling her anything. While the second is always more fun, Charlie _is_ the one of the few people he'd actually call family and besides, he's kinda going stir-crazy not being able to vent about it to anyone. 

"Same as ever," he shrugs. "We fight, we fuck, we  _don't_ go out for dinner together and have lengthy conversations about our feelings."

Charlie eyes him critically. "Do you  _want_ to go out for dinner with him and have lengthy conversations about your feelings?"

And Dean can say with absolutely certainty that no, he does not. However, when he relays this to Charlie she immediately fires back, "Ah, but there  _are_ feelings?"

"What?" he yelps. "No. I never said that. What?"

She gives him the sad face she reserves for when he's done something stupid. "C'mon, dude, you're practically  _broadcasting_ it."

Dean genuinely has no idea what she's talking about. "Broadcasting  _what_?"

"Fine," she says imperiously, "if that's how you want to play it. But just be careful, Dean, okay?" Her expression softens. "Remember there are  _two_ hearts involved here, not just yours."

What? Thoroughly confused, Dean watches her leave and resists the temptation to call her back to explain herself because something in him doesn't really want to know. 

God, when did everything get so complicated? He's lying to his brother who's telling him, obliviously, to be BFFs with his fuck-buddy, his actual best friend is giving him cryptic advice that he's unwilling to decode for several reasons he doesn't want to examine too hard, and he's fucking  _hungry_ because of his sub-standard lunch.

By the time the end of the day rolls around, he's cranky and grumpy and has already snapped at a client (who, in his defence, is a dick) but Bobby chewed him out for it anyway. He thanks his lucky stars it's Friday, because tomorrow's Saturday and he has nothing planned besides a round of golf with Benny in the afternoon and maybe after they can go out for drinks and he'll pick up a smokin' hot chick. It's this thought alone that doesn't have him crying into his paperwork. 

When Castiel shuffles into his office just as Dean's packing up his things, he doesn't even have the effort to energy to be snarky with him like usual. Instead he just takes in Cas's appearance--hair mussed, tie wonky, way overdue for a shave, eyes just as tired as Dean feels--and says, "Hey, man. My place?"

Cas looks relieved and nods. "If you want."

Oh boy, does Dean want. Wants to lose himself in another warm body. Wants to lose himself in Cas. "I do," he agrees. "But on one condition."

"What's that?"  

Dean stands, buttons up his peacoat. He grins at him. "We're so getting takeout. Loads of takeout. Burgers, man. Something dripping in grease and sat fats, I don't even care."

This goes against their regulations (as Dean said to Charlie, they _don't_ eat together) but he figures a one-off is allowed. He's starving and what's he meant to do, turn down sex for yet another dinner on his own in an empty apartment? Yeah, no. 

But Cas just says, "I actually skipped lunch, so that sounds amazing," and Dean isn't left with a doubt in his mind. 

\--

They take separate cars but stop at the Biggerson's a few blocks from Dean's apartment and buy two of their jumbo-size burger and fries combos with a whole host of sides to go. Then they sit on the living room floor with their backs against the couch to eat them,  _Jeopardy!_ playing on the TV. It's quite nice, actually, just chilling out with Cas and yelling answers at Alex Trebek together, laughing when the contestants get even the easiest ones wrong. 

"Man," Dean chuckles, "you and me would kick _ass_ on this show."

Cas is squinting at the television like he's never laid eyes on one before. Maybe he hasn't. Dean can't remember ever seeing one in the guy's apartment, but then again, other than that adventurous occasion on the kitchen table, they don't spend a lot of their time out of the bedroom. He turns that squint on Dean. "I would have no need for the prize money."

If he had just met Cas, Dean might think this comment was his attempt at bragging, but he knows it isn't. Castiel is just a literal-minded sonofabitch and sure, he has his faults, plenty of them, but Dean's gotta admit that he's never heard Cas boasting about anything other than a win in the courtroom. Oh, and his ability to blow Dean's mind in bed--but that's a whole other matter and something only Dean gets to listen to.

"You're totally missing the point," Dean says, then holds out a half-eaten box of onion rings. "I'll trade you these for a couple of those chicken wings you got goin' on there."

Rolling his eyes, Cas passes two of the wings and a little pot of BBQ sauce into Dean's waiting hands. 

They eat until nothing remains, until their bellies are full and Dean feels happy and content to just lounge around on the floor. He lost his tie and his belt as soon as he got in, but he rolls up his shirtsleeves and kicks off his shoes while Cas gets up to take the trash into the kitchen. 

"Dude, leave it," Dean insists, waving a lazy hand at the coffee table Cas is bent over. "I'll get to it in the morning." 

"If you're sure," Castiel says, and sits down, sinking into the couch with a small groan. This also puts his knee at Dean's shoulder-level, his leg just inches from Dean's arm. Dean stares. He didn't know he found knees attractive until right now, even knees wearing what are probably Armani pants. 

Cas has also taken his shoes off, and his socked feet are rather distracting. Plain black socks, nothing surprising there, but it's the wriggle of his toes that Dean finds odd. It's sort of endearing. Cas is such a force to be reckoned with; he's got a stone-cold glare that could cause universes to implode, Dean's sure of it, so to see him like this is... freaking Dean out, is what it is. 

It gets worse. 

He jumps when a warm hand touches the back of his neck and twists around, expecting Cas to smirk and lean down and kiss him or something, but the guy's just watching _Jeopardy!_  with his fingers carding through Dean's hair like it's no big deal, which, what? Yeah, it feels... well, it actually feels pretty damn nice. But that's not the point. The point is, they  _don't do this_.   


Perhaps Dean shouldn't have instigated the whole food thing. What if he's given Cas all these unrealistic expectations now? 'Cause they're sitting here like a poster couple for domestic bliss, which isn't at all okay and definitely not what they agreed to at the beginning of this whole thing. They have three rules: no sleepovers, no eating together, no letting it affect work. Rules which had been working great until Dean broke one tonight and now it seems to be a free-for-all where anything goes. 

He breathes heavily. The hand is still working its way through his hair, fingertips brushing across the ruffled spikes above his forehead. He shivers.

Maybe he's overthinking this. It could just be a reflex, or a habit, on Cas's part. No big deal. Dean will bring an end to it the best way he knows how and they'll go back to normal. 

He catches Cas's wrist, holding it still, and clambers up onto the couch. "Hey," he whispers, leaning in. Cas looks startled but quickly accommodates him, hands coming to Dean's waist and leaning back against the armrest. 

"Hello, Dean," he mutters, voice pitched low, and Dean grins and surges forward. He sucks Cas's bottom lip between his own, bites on it gently, starts to pop the buttons on his pristine, white oxford that's begging to be torn open. 

"How'd you fancy screwing me into the mattress?" Dean breathes, hot and damp, into the shell of Cas's ear.

Cas swallows with an audible click, kisses him hard, and climbs off the couch. He doesn't stop kissing him even as he drags Dean by his belt loops into the bedroom, where he promptly pushes him down onto the bed. 

"I'll take that as a yes, then," Dean grins, waiting for Cas to strip off his shirt and  _get the hell down here_. 

Cas says, "Shut up, Winchester," when he kneels on all fours over him, lips sucking a bruise onto Dean's collarbone, and Dean can't do anything but gasp and drag his clammy palms over the firm planes of Cas's shoulder blades. 

See, totally back to normal. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more, I promise. Thank you for sticking with me.


End file.
